A Love Hate Thing Page 7
“Erica—”
“I’m for real—you and Shayne were sounding like those snooty old white people who are stuck in their ways. I know it’s scary because he’s from Lindenwood, and he’s big and intense-looking, but I know you, and you know you. This stuck-up, judgmental girl is not the Nandy Smith we all know. Get over yourself and welcome him like you’d welcome anyone else into our school and town.” Erica gave me a little shove. “You’re the friendliest girl I know, and if you keep acting like this I’ma catch a case.”
Her words incited the internal battle I felt at the idea of breaking down my prejudices and showing Tyson around willingly versus steering clear of him. There was a part of me that wanted to be nice, wanted to be myself, but then there was a deeper part of me that didn’t. That felt angry at the sight of him, that remembered every summer after age seven spent by the window waiting, and waiting, only for him not to return.
I waved and headed to Tyson, or I would’ve, if it hadn’t been for my suddenly being airborne and swung in a circle as, I was assuming, Chad had engulfed me in his arms.
“You weren’t going to say goodbye?” he asked.
He set me down and was quick to pull me into a kiss, deep and aggressive, right in the middle of the street for all to see.
I felt embarrassed, especially when from the corner of my eye I caught Tyson rolling his eyes and Erica doing the same as she went to her car.
Pressing both hands to Chad’s chest, I pushed him back a little, giggling. “What was that about? I’m just going home, silly.”
Chad smiled. “Still, I’m going to miss my girl. Can’t you sneak out?”
“So we can have sex while ESPN plays in the background?” I teased.
“I’ll mute it, I swear!”
Were all boys like this? Forever obsessed with some dumb sport? Even Jordy was falling in love with soccer, which he played with his best friend, Hector Gómez.
“I can’t.”
Chad frowned, pouting. “Why not?”
“I probably have to get up early to take Tyson somewhere.”
Chad looked past me at Tyson, his face impassive, but his eyes showing his annoyance. “That kid’s gonna ruin your summer if you have to shuttle him around.”
“Believe me, I know.” Thinking of Erica’s words, I backtracked. “But I’m working on it. Maybe he just needs his license or something. I can teach him to drive and—”
“Doesn’t he have his own family for that?”
I’d never known much about Tyson’s family. I always assumed they were decent people. He used to wear the nicest little outfits when he’d come over to play with me. The only thing odd about it all was the sadness in his eyes. Now that sadness had been replaced by a burning anger, and I didn’t know why.
“According to my parents, we’re his family now.” I looked into my boyfriend’s blue eyes and gave a sad smile. “I will make time for you, I promise, okay?”
“Okay.” With another sigh, he kissed me and let me go.
Tyson walked around to the passenger door and waited for me to unlock the car for him.
Erica knew me well, and she knew I wasn’t the type to judge or ice people out, but Tyson was a different case. Even so, I decided to take my best friend’s advice and try.
I almost wanted to give Tyson my customary greeting when it came to newbies. Where are you from, and what do you like? But instead, I fumbled and asked, “Music?”
Tyson blinked, staring at me funny. “Sure.”
Instead of listening to my preferred music, I turned the radio to a rap station. Each time we’d ridden in my car, he’d scowled at Lana’s singing.
While I wasn’t the most educated in hip-hop or rap, I recognized the Notorious B.I.G.’s voice as I settled on a song. He was rapping about who shot someone, and even though I found the topic gritty, I let the song play.
Seconds hadn’t passed since I’d settled on the song when Tyson suddenly reached out and punched a button, turning the station to some Adele song.
Guess he’s not a Biggie fan.
Adele was one of my favorite singers anyway, so I let Tyson and his weirdness go as I continued home.
He was quiet the whole way there, and as we entered the door, I tried one more time to be the nice Nandy Erica knew me to be.
“Tyson,” I said, catching his attention as he shut the door behind us.
He took a deep breath as he faced me, his eyes hardening.
“I just wanted to warn you to stay away from Shayne. Trust me.” She might be one of my best friends, but I was doing her and Tyson a favor by sparing them the drama.
He rolled his eyes, walking by me. “Gee, anyone else I should stay away from?”
My nostrils flared at the tone of his voice and his attitude.
“Maybe you can stay away from my family and go back to yours,” I mumbled as I set my car keys in the dish that sat on the table in the hall.
Tyson stopped walking, his body tensing. Before I knew what was happening, he was coming at me, fast, blocking me against the wall. He stared me in the eyes with a look that caused me to tremble. With a glance, he eyed my body up and down and sneered.
“Go back to my family?” he asked. “I don’t have a fucking family, Nandy. And you wanna know why?” He got closer to my face, not letting me look away. “Because that motherfucker shot me. He shot my mom and killed her, he shot me, and then himself, and he died. All that’s left is me.” He slammed his hand against the wall, causing pictures to rattle and me to let out a small, scared squeak. “So fuck you!”
The anger from his eyes had traveled to his face and magnified, making him look lethal. He backed away from me and stalked out the front door, slamming it shut behind himself.
Time froze as my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and breath evaded me. I couldn’t form a complete thought as I felt myself slide down against the wall into a sitting position.
Covering my mouth to stop the sobs from escaping, I felt my vision blur as tears soaked my eyes.
Shot.
He’d been shot.
How?
Why?
It was like there were two Tysons—the Tyson from when we were kids, and this new guarded and cold Tyson. No longer did I have to question the reason, because here it was—he’d been shot.
Not only that, he’d lost everything. He’d watched his own mother die. I couldn’t begin to imagine going through that, what it must’ve been like.
Tyson was right. I’d been a total bitch, self-involved to the point where I hadn’t questioned the whereabouts of his parents or even his grandfather, who’d been the one who brought him to Pacific Hills.
No, all it took was the word Lindenwood for me to expect the worst of the stranger moving in with my family.
But he wasn’t a stranger.
He was Tyson, a boy I’d once known. To think that, when he’d disappeared from my life, he’d been swallowed by the dark sea that was Lindenwood was heartbreaking. When I was seven, I never cared about the reason Tyson stopped coming around. I’d hated him for abandoning me without so much as a goodbye.
Now all I wanted to do was talk to him and ask him what had happened. If he’d talk to me again. Or more important, if he ever came back.
9 | Trice
Welcome to Lindenwood.
It was home. Or it used to be, right until my father killed my mother and shot me before killing himself.
I wanted to ruin Nandy’s world for her bringing me back to that vivid memory of that night. I wanted to pound my fists into the wall until they were stumps and I couldn’t feel anymore. Though the last rational part of me knew it was better to just leave altogether before doing damage and becoming the monster she thought I was.
An hour after storming out of the Smiths’ house, I found myself back where it all began. Standing in front
of my childhood home, now all boarded up, I felt numb and hard at the same time. The voices in my head were louder than they’d ever been, and I fought to block them out.
It was to no avail.
“You think you can leave me, bitch?”
The scene unfolded as if a projector were plugged in to my memory, taunting me with what I didn’t want to remember, let alone think about.
She screamed as he dragged her through the house by her hair before throwing her on the floor in the living room. I watched a version of myself from six months prior trying to go to her and stop him. But just like before, he pulled out a gun and aimed at me. I kept going. It was only when she held up a hand, tears streaming down her cheeks as she begged me to stay away, that I stopped.
“Ty, baby, go upstairs. Don’t be here for this.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t let him do it anymore. I couldn’t let him hurt her.
He looked at me and back to her, becoming visibly angrier. “You thought you was just going to leave? You thought you was going to take him and go?”
She begged him to calm down, and I inched closer, willing to do more than take a bullet for her.
“You belong to me, bitch!”
The next few seconds were forever engraved in my mind. Everything was silent, and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as he pulled the trigger and she fell farther down, letting out a cry I would never forget for as long as I lived.
My own voice sounded foreign to me as I screamed for her and moved forward.
He turned and faced me, still angry, still vicious.
“We’re a family, dammit. No one leaves.”
He didn’t hesitate before aiming at me and pulling the trigger once more.
I could barely recall the impact or the pain. I was too busy feeling shocked and worrying about my mother. It wasn’t until I was on the floor, too weak to move my right arm, that I realized how much it hurt. Even then, I didn’t care about myself. I wanted to get to her, to help her.
Another shot sounded, and I saw him collapse, dead before his body bounced onto the ground.
Looking over, I could see her weakening, her blood pooling beneath her, staining the white carpeted floor he’d spent years demanding she keep clean.
I watched her die reaching out for me as I reached out for her. I watched her take her last breath and stare at me. I watched her drift away right in front of me as I lay there, too paralyzed to do anything.
In seconds, all went dark.
The projector stopped, and the scene faded away. My fists were shaking, and I fought to gain control of my breathing.
Fuck Nandy.
* * *
It was late, but there was one place I could go where I knew the residents would still be up. Ten minutes later, I knocked on the wrought iron door of a house where I’d spent many days growing up. Seeing the familiar setup of an old wooden chair and a turned-over milk crate on the concrete porch felt like home. It was my second home, and the reason I kept with the tradition of knocking instead of just going inside like some people I knew often did was simply respect.
The door opened and a familiar figure stepped outside and walked past me, and then did a double take.
“Trice? Is that you?” Gerald asked as he squinted, trying to see me in the dim porchlight. He looked dressed for the night shift at his job.
“What’s up, G?” I asked, reaching out and giving him a hug. It wasn’t brief; he held on for a moment longer than he might have in the past.
“I thought you was dead, boy.” He held me at arm’s length, examining me with shock in his old eyes. “I heard it all on the news, and then you was gone.”
I hadn’t been home in six months. My grandfather had lived forty-five minutes away.
“It all happened so fast. I was recovering with Pops,” I said.
“How he doin’?”
“Cancer got him.”
Gerald frowned with pity. “At least it’s that that got him other than this.”
“This is cancer, G.”
Gerald didn’t disagree. “Ain’t that the truth.” He lifted his chin at me. “You here to see Proph?”
“Yeah, it’s been a minute.”
“They all down in the basement playin’ cards. Go an’ see ’em, and tell ’em not to smoke up all that shit. I’ma get me some after I get off.”
Gerald headed to his rusty van and got in, and I went inside.
I’d spent most of my youth at this house practically being raised by Gerald, Alma, and her son, Prophet. I’d learned so much from all three that, after the shit Nandy had pulled back in Pacific Hills, I’d wanted to come here.
I stepped down into the basement, not surprised by all the commotion I could hear before I even reached the bottom step.
The boys were huddled around a card table. There was weed on it, some cash, and plenty of smoke in the air along with shit talk. While the other guys played, Read was stretched across the couch watching TV, some book of his lying on the coffee table within his reach.
Prophet noticed me first. “Trice,” he said as he greeted me, standing with an elated smile on his face. “What’s been happenin’?”
I went and gave him a hug and a pat on the back and mirrored the same to Khalil, Pretty, and Money.
“Nothing much, y’all?”
Money passed Pretty the blunt and blew out smoke. “Nothin’, chillin’, tryna stay alive.”
Pretty eyed me. “For the record, had your father survived, we would’ve got ’em.” He set his Beretta on the table, and I eyed the .9mm and its cold silver frame, knowing how one of its bullets felt. “We would’ve got him, man, on the dead homies. He would’ve got straight chipped.”
I nearly allowed myself to feel, to connect to that night and that moment all over again, but I blocked it out.
“I appreciate it,” I replied, “but I would’ve handled it.”
“I never liked Tyson Sr., man,” Money went on, shaking his head. “I would’ve smoked him a long time ago had I known he was gon’ pull this shit.” He appraised me, eyes hard. “You straight, man?”
I didn’t care.
I took a seat at the table and shrugged. “It’s whatever. Pops passed, and now I’m down in Pacific Hills. It is what it is.”
“I’m sorry about your grandfather, man, he was good people. How they treatin’ you in the Hills, young brother?” Prophet asked, looking my way with concern.
“Typical,” I answered. “Reason why I’m here. I’m about to go crazy if I stay there too long.”
“They shittin’ on you?” Money asked. “Just say the word and we will dump on ’em.”
And then Nandy would die being right about me. “Unless you’re going to go against a girl, it ain’t worth it.”
Pretty sucked his teeth. “Shit, a bitch can catch it just as quick as a dude. Ain’t no one exempt, especially if she treatin’ you some type of way.”
“I can handle her.”
Pretty eyed his gun with a mischievous grin. “Maybe she just needs a good scare, is all. Shit, we can teach her—”
Prophet cleared his throat. “Who is she?”
“Just some girl I live with. I’m staying with some old friends, and they got a daughter and a son.”
“She think you’re a thug?”
“Yeah.”
Pretty tried to pass me the blunt, but as usual I passed. Everyone knew I didn’t smoke or drink, yet on occasions when they were getting high, Pretty or Money would always try to pass me whatever it was that they were smoking.
Khalil clicked his tongue. “Y’all dudes know Trice don’t smoke. Pass that right here.”
Khalil and I were the same age, but total opposites. Read was eighteen; Money and Pretty were older at nineteen and twenty. In ways, they’d both lived more than the three of us had yet to.
Pretty was just as cutthroat as Money, willing to do anything to get money or pleasure, and he just straight didn’t give a fuck. We called him Pretty because of his lighter skin tone and the way he wore his hair—that, and he was quick to make sure he was groomed to perfection. It didn’t help that a lot of the girls we grew up with were always sweating him, too.
Read got his name because he always had his head in some book and was quick to avoid drama. He was quiet unless spoken to, but he’d been down since day one.
Khalil and I might have been the same age, but he felt younger; he did what he was told and drank and got high just to go along.
Prophet was a different story. He was the oldest at twenty-three and somewhat our leader. He was smart—not just street-smart, but booksmart too, though he’d never finished school. He was always there to guide us, ever since we were kids. He’d taught us how to hold a gun and how to pull the trigger. He’d taught us how to run the streets and make money and to stay in line. He taught us how to survive Lindenwood.
Prophet wasn’t his real name—I couldn’t even remember his real name after so much time, but he lived up to his moniker through and through. He was sure that he wouldn’t live to see twenty-five; he was sure most of his friends wouldn’t either, but when it came to me, for some reason, he had faith. Next to my mother, Alma, and Gerald, Prophet was probably the only person who believed in me.
He shook his head. “That’s a shame. She obviously doesn’t know you.”
What kind of hurt, when I thought about it, was the fact that Nandy did know me. At least, at one time she had.
“Fuck her,” I said. “She just some uppity white girl wannabe with a fuck boy for a boyfriend.”
Pretty picked up his gun and stared at her beauty. “Say the word, T, we can handle this easy.”
As far as I knew, the boys hadn’t ever killed anyone, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t. Back when we were kids, there used to be this old lady who lived across the street from me. She was always yelling at us to turn down our music and to keep off her lawn. She was mean and annoying, and all of us couldn’t stand her. Money and Pretty used to do shit on purpose just to set her off. One night, there were shots, and an hour later my parents and I found out she’d been robbed and killed. I used to wonder if it had been one of the boys, but then I let it go.